


In Which Kankri Loses His Voice and Cronus Takes Care of Him

by thegreatgayjatsby



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Cronus' cooking, Dotingboyfriend!Cronus, Humanstuck, Imbibing of soup, M/M, Precious boyfriends, Sick!Kankri, Sickfic, loss of voice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1541366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatgayjatsby/pseuds/thegreatgayjatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the title entails, Kankri gets sick and Cronus cooks him soup, doting on him and making sure he feels better. He does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Kankri Loses His Voice and Cronus Takes Care of Him

**Author's Note:**

> PRECIOUS BABIES

“Now, you’ve gotta’ understand one thing,” Cronus notes as he busies himself in your dorm’s kitchenette, concentrated entirely on the scraps of a meal he’s putting together for you. “Pop wasn’t exactly the best cook, but when me or Eri was sick, he’d whip this shit up.”

He gestures with a pink Home Goods plastic soup ladle, not even sparing a glance at you as you cough into a fist. Your breath rattles in your lungs as you inhale the scent of canned broth of chicken, watching through bleary eyes as he cranks the stove on and pours the whole can in. 

The older student tosses the can at the trash, barely making it into the lined wastebasket. Your fingers twitch slightly as you quell the urge to object. You are the head of the recycling unit for this dorm, after all, and what would the others think finding clearly recyclable waste in your bin?

Unfortunately, you have lost your voice. It happened sometime yesterday; you’d been presenting in your Social Ed class when your voice hiccuped and broke. You hadn’t been able to do more than rasp one-word answers ever since. 

(Example; Cronus had rapped his knuckles on the door to your room.   
“Can I come in?” He’d inquired in that familiarly confident tone of voice.  
“No.” You’d wheezed out, swallowing dryly.  
He’d entered anyways.)

So here you are, curled up on the wooden-backed futon, wrapped up in his leather jacket. The scent of smoke and musk and Cronus envelopes you as you watch him cook. Your mind is hazy enough, you don’t need to be distracted further by the attractive music major. 

However, he turns as you begin to shrug out of his jacket and tuts, pointing before lifting the boiling pot from the burner and draining it over the sink. You mewl quietly and burrow into his jacket, clutching a throw pillow to your chest.

You sniffle a little as he settles beside you, spooning broth littered with various spices and shreds of chicken breast into two bowls. He sets his down on the little coffee table as you take the proffered meal with shaking hands, reaching out to steady you.

Your face burns with both a waning fever and a harsh blush as he cups your hand in his, taking the spoon back to feed you himself. He nudges the tip of the utensil against your bottom lip, one eyebrow raises, and with a silent huff, you open your mouth.

He doesn’t seem to mind his bowl of soup going cold, taking the time to even dab at your mouth with a napkin every few bites. Your ears are the color of your crimson sweater by the time he finally relents to your shaking head and tensely pursed lips.

You settle back against the couch, and the movement triggers a coughing fit. You hack so hard and for so long that your eyes water, your lungs straining to inhale and exhale at the same time. Your fingers loose their grip on your bowl and it hits the thinly carpeted floor with a dull thud. 

When you come back to, wheezing and shaking, his hand is on your back, rubbing soothingly, and you mewl softly. He squeezes your shoulder and stands when you’re able to breathe freely, kneeling to pat the carpet dry and collect the plastic Ikea bowl from the floor.

You relax a little and soon he’s gathering you up, double checking the burner to see if it’s off before guiding you into your room and then bed. He takes his jacket back and pulls the blanket up to your chin, smoothing the sheets around you and smiling a little.

“You set now, kitten?” He murmurs softly, letting his fingers linger on your forehead as he brushes your hair out of your eyes.

You nod sleepily and yawn, licking your lips before turning on your side. He takes your hand as you grope for it, giving your fingers a squeeze before leaning in and kissing your forehead. You blush under his affections and close your eyes, drifting off to the sound of him whispering the song he wrote for you as he strokes your hair.


End file.
